Warhorse
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Bretonnian warhorses are superior to the mounts of the rest of the Old World, and they know it. For the most part, it isn't a problem. But in the Storm of Chaos, as the final battle was waged at the foot of Middenheim...sometimes the line between pride and arrogance is crossed.


**Warhorse**

"What in the name of the Lady are you?"

"I'm…a horse?"

"A horse? Pah! I've seen ponies with more muscle than you."

Sometimes, Bey wondered what humans said exactly. His master, a knight of Bretonnia, was talking to a knight of the Empire. Something to do with a place called Middenheim and the forces of Chaos, and how these would be the last few hours before the defenders of the Old World clashed against the horde of Archaon. Bey knew the generalities. But not the specifics. Which suited him just fine, because the little runt of an equine the Empire knight was mounted on was providing him all the entertainment he needed.

"I mean, I know we're not of the same stock," Bey continued, snorting for good measure. "Bretonnian warhorses are the best in the Old World. I'm just saying, surely the Knights of the Blazing Sun could get something with a bit more…"

"What?"

"Dignity?"

The pony tried to meet the warhorse's eyes. It wasn't technically a pony. But given the differences in size, and the look in the creature's eyes, Bey knew a runt when he saw one. His master was a knight of the realm. He'd fought in many a battle, and Bey had no doubt that he would someday undertake a quest for the Grail and receive the Lady's blessing. In contrast, the creature before him looked small, weak, and barely able to carry his rider, let alone stand with all the armour on him.

"So, tell me," Bey continued. "How many battles have you fought in?"

"One. Er, two!"

"Bit of hesitation there."

"Well, one of them was against a group of rogue halflings…"

"And the other?"

"Goblins."

"Well, I'm sure they ran away in terror."

Bey watched the horse's ears droop. This was just too easy.

"But, I mean, you know about the battle coming up!" the runt added. "I mean, if we survive it, we'll-"

"No, my friend, there's no we," Bey interrupted. "I'm sorry, but if Sigmar accepts ponies into the afterlife, I'm afraid he's got a pen marked out for you."

The horse stamped on the ground. "Don't mock me."

"Why not?"

"I…I…"

Bey snorted again. There wasn't much time left, he knew. Soon the host would march, soon the fighting would begin, and soon he'd be doing his part for Bretonnia and the Old World as a whole. But this thing?"

"What's your name?" Bey asked the horse.

"Phillip."

"Well, Phillip, it's been nice knowing you. May fortune favour the bold."

Phillip remained silent. He lowered his head. And as his rider pulled on his reins, he began to slink away.

Soon, Bey was headed in the opposite direction. But it didn't matter.

The destination was still the same.

* * *

Bey didn't know when the battle had begun. He just knew he wouldn't live to see the end of it.

Chaos. It ruled the battlefield. Not the Ruinous Powers themselves, but rather what they brought to the world. Death. Destruction. War. Before the City of the White Golf, the host of the enemies of the world had gathered. From both south and north, the Men of Kislev, Bretonnia, and the Empire had charged into them. All throughout the battlefield were greenskins, fighting both sides as their mood shifted. Lying down on the ground, Bey watched the head of an Empire soldier fly through the air, courtesy of one of the northmen. Before he could savour his victory, he was promptly impaled by a Kislevite's lance.

It had been the same in his own case. A demon, its sword writhing and drenched in blood, had stood alone, surrounded by the bodies of its foes, but also bereft of whatever hellspawn had stood beside it when the battle began. His master had charged it without hesitation, his lance entering the creature's flesh and lifting it high into the air. Yet as the creature let out its last scream, before returning to the Realm of Chaos, it had cast its sword downwards. Impaling his master. Sending both of them toppling down. His master was dead, Bey was beneath him, and due to the weight of his armour and how he'd tangled himself in the reins, he couldn't get up. And the pain in his chest…he could barely breathe, either.

All around him the battle continued. He watched the magics of the Lord of Change warp good men into hideous monstrosities. He saw green flesh fly into the air as cannon and mortar rained down on them. He looked up in the sky as a griffon and bloodthirster flew in a dance of death, only for both of them to come crashing down to the ground. He was reminded of the fact that he was already on the ground, and fated to die.

"Huh huh huh."

And by an orc no less.

Bey looked at the monster hobbling towards him. It was missing an arm, and bone was protruding from its left leg. But its sole remaining arm still held what looked like a giant cleaver. The orc must have known it was as good as dead. Yet it still wanted to kill as many of its foes as possible.

"Ur dead, 'orsie."

The brute stumbled forward. Letting out a whine, Bey tried to escape. But it was no good. He couldn't move. The orc raised its weapon.

And then its arm dropped to the ground.

The creature howled as blood poured out of its wound. It glanced up towards its foe – a knight in golden armour. The knight's horse reared backwards, only to send its hooves flying forward and hitting the creature's skull. It fell to the ground. Dead.

"Bey?"

The warhorse looked up. The knight above him looked exhausted. His helmet was missing, as was his lance and shield. All he bore was his armour, dented in a dozen places, and a sword dripping with blood.

"Bey, it's me."

The knight was looking at Bey's master. He said something in his own tongue. But Bey wasn't listening. Instead, he was looking at the knight's mount.

"Phillip?"

The horse stood there. Like his rider, his armour was dented all over. Cuts were all over the exposed parts of his flesh, including his right eye.

"Third battle," Phillip said softly. "Another win."

"We…we haven't won yet…"

"No, we have. The horde's leader. He was defeated. His armies may fight on, the greenskins still press against us, but…we won, Bey. We _won_."

A victory. Bey rested his head against the ground. The sounds of battle sounded so distant now. Maybe the battle _was _truly ending. Or maybe…it was his life.

Bey watched the golden knight dismount. A dagger was in his hand.

"Bey?"

"It's alright. A quick cut to the throat. It's good to know…your master cares."

"Yes," Phillip whispered. "He's good to me."

"That's…good to know."

Bey closed on eye. Through the other, he saw the dagger. He saw the sky. He saw the Banner of the Lady, flying proudly.

And after the dagger cut his throat, he saw nothing.

* * *

_A/N_

_Hah! Finally! I can write _Warhammer _oneshots without elves again!_

_For what it's worth, the idea for this came when reading the Bretonnian army book for the fan-made Warhammer Armies Project, namely where it explains how and why Bretonnian warhorses are superior to the horses of the rest of the Old World and Araby. Idea popped into my head as to what would happen if such a warhorse knew it._


End file.
